


Fandom ABCs

by PlotDotOh (TheCheerfulPornographer), TheCheerfulPornographer



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Firefly, Marvel, Sherlock (TV), Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Mostly Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/PlotDotOh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/TheCheerfulPornographer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have fallen out of the habit of writing, and need to get back in.  Therefore, I will write and update this series <strike>every single day</strike>, without agonizing over the stories and picking apart every word like I usually do, until I make it through the alphabet.</p><p>Multi-fandom, multi-ship, varied ratings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Avarice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Arrow  
>  **Characters:** Oliver Queen, Felicity Smoak

He watches her, when he knows she isn't watching. 

He knows when she isn't watching, because he is constantly, perpetually aware of the direction of her gaze. This knowledge is like a curse — one that he did not ask for, but cannot escape. 

When her gaze is fixed on him, it gives him superpowers. He can make the right decision, or do that one extra rep more than he's ever been able to do before. It makes him want to be somebody better than he is. Somebody good enough for her. 

When her gaze is fixed on someone else, everything feels wrong. He knows that it's a little bit desperate, a little sad. He would sooner die than let her know it. But it's there, inside of him. That greed. He wants what he cannot have. What it's not even right to ask for, really. 

He wants her gaze to be always fixed upon him. 

He wants to be the only man in her life; the only one she does things for. The one who gives her the challenging, fun work that tickles her brain, that appeals to that same impulse that got her into this mess in the first place – yes. He does love being that. But it's more. 

He wants to be the only man in her bed, the only man who gets to wrap his arms around her and pull her close, hold her close, keep her there against him. He wants to be the only one to cup those breasts (my god, those breasts) and know the exact tenor of her moan. He wants to be the only one to drive into her, like a beast, over and over again while she writhes and shakes beneath him, both of them cursing, hissing, dripping sweat. 

And he wants to be the only one to hold her afterward, and kiss her and praise her and tell her everything, all of the things that she deserves to hear, all of the things that _he_ probably never tells her. Whoever _he_ is. 

If there even is one. 

He doesn't think there is — she's never mentioned anybody. But that's part of the problem. Right now, he doesn't even have the right to ask. 

So he watches, when he knows she isn't watching, and he burns. He burns, desire coursing through his veins, and manhandles himself furiously — angrily, almost — every night. He watches, wants, and waits. 

He doesn't really know for what.


	2. Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow  
>  **Characters:** Ichabod Crane, Abbie Mills

He can't get over their clothing, the people of this modern day. He is no prude, certainly; amongst his peers (when he still had peers), his beliefs were liberal and modern. Radical, even, in many ways. For the time.

But now.

It's not so much that people — women, in particular — reveal so much more _skin_. Although they certainly do that. He is no prude, though, and so this fact does not bother him. Much.

Far more disconcerting is the shape of the clothing. The fact that women wear, not just trousers, but exceedingly tight ones that reveal every curve, every outline of their calves... their thighs... even their buttocks. 

He is accustomed to being able to see the outline of a woman's buttocks only when they are in bed together, acting as man and wife. 

All of these legs, everywhere... it's distracting, at best. Disconcerting. And Lt. Mills' legs are the worst.

Let it never be mistaken; he holds the Lieutenant in extremely high regard, and his intentions toward her are in no way impure. She is the only other person in the world who has any level of understanding about the insanity of his daily existence. She is the Second Witness, and she's also brave, intelligent, and kind. For the most part, he treasures the time they spend together.

Unfortunately, this also means that he must spend a large portion of the day, every day, in the company of an attractive, young, unattached woman, who is, to his eyes, practically nude. 

Such legs. Such... ass. (He finds the word harsh, in its modern variation — but the modern world is harsh, especially in its approach to romance. So perhaps the word fits. Heaven knows, he's not worthy to call himself a gentleman, not with thoughts like that one.) Abigail... Abbie... is undeniably lovely, and Ichabod is lonely. He finds himself struggling with unworthy thoughts.

Sometimes, in his cold bed in the middle of the night, when he is tired of dwelling on the litany of faces he'll never see again, the friends and family to whom he'll never speak — sometimes these thoughts threaten to overwhelm him. Sometimes he has been on the verge of giving in. Of closing his eyes and imagining Abbie...

But he is married, may God damn him for the thought. He is married, and his wife is... not alive, exactly, but very much an ongoing presence in his life. So it doesn't matter how cold the nights are in his cabin, or how tightly the fabric of the garment called "jeans" clings to Lt. Mills' thigh. He will wait, for as long as there is some chance that Katrina might come back. 

He is a man of his word, and he will wait. Because he must.


	3. Content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Marvel  
>  **Character:** Black Widow

She takes a deep breath, in and out. Then another, and another. Her muscles loosen, and she drops another few millimeters deeper into Heron Pose. Pulls her leg in even closer, toes pointed perfectly. Core strong, shoulders relaxed.

Today is special. 

Not because of the yoga. She practices every day. 

She trains hard. She's not one of those with _powers_. It would be easy to give that word a derogatory spin in her own mind, but she resists. She knows upon which side her bread is buttered.

But she was born into nothing, and had nothing handed to her except a lifetime of bruises, until she figured out how to escape. She's had to work hard for what she's got now. And that means training her ass off, every single day.

So every single day that she's not out on assignment, she starts with a run, then gymnastics. A break for food and on to sparring, then some weights, and finally, two hours at the shooting range. All day long, she leaps and spins and kicks and twirls. All day long, she fights the grueling, necessary, uphill struggle to stay at the very top of her game. To stay alive.

To earn her name.

It's not until late, when it's already dark, that she leaves SHIELD — just one of many things that sets her apart from her fellow agents — and comes back to the Avengers' Mansion, to her beloved little courtyard set apart from all the rest. There, it's time for her favorite part of most days: quality time spent standing still, in very odd positions. It's like therapy, vacation and meditation all in one — which is great, because she has precious little time for those.

She follows no set sequence, no routine. She just flows, allowing the energy to lead her. Between breaths, she chooses a new pose: Parva Bakasana, the Sideways Crane. 

She inhales, and then flows smoothly from one position to the other, trying always to perform the smallest, simplest, most efficient motion that will allow her to attain and keep the pose. Now, she is balanced on her hands, legs turned out to one side. She is strong enough to hold this pose for an hour, and sometimes she does. Today... she doesn't know. 

She will stay here until she doesn't want to anymore, and then she will move into something else. That's what she does.

Except...

Today is special, in a way that nobody else could quite understand. Because today marks the 439th night that she has slept and ate here in the Avenger's Mansion. (Not counting missions, of course.) The 439th night that she has kept her stuff here, in "her" apartment, and carried her own passcard to let herself in through her own side gate. 

And 439 nights is one night longer than she has lived in one place before, ever. In her entire life.

Eventually, when she feels like it is right, she will lie here on the cool smooth stone of the hidden courtyard — she uses no mat, preferring the sure grip of her bare feet against the stone — and hold herself in Savasana, the posture of the Corpse. For a moment, she will lie here, defenseless and unguarded, and her mind will be empty, and her breath will be deep.

It took her months to get there, but lately something's been happening, when she lies in Savasana. A sort of lightness, like all of her troubles for a moment seem to float away. It sounds bizarre, unrealistic, but she thinks it might be... peace?

Whatever the name, she can't deny that there is a form of safety here, hidden behind this barrier of thick stone walls and wealth. She is unused to safety. It has taken 439 days for her to trust that it might be real, this time. That this place might not be a trap.

She breathes, and bows. She's never believed in any God, but if there is divinity, it must be present in these stones, and in the people that they protect and hold. This bizarre and contentious family of warriors that has somehow become her own.

Tonight, instead of "namaste", she gives a different blessing. 

"Home."


	4. Discipline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Marvel  
>  **Characters:** Tony Stark, Steve Rogers
> 
> Yeah, so this one got porny.

"You lack discipline." Steve slams his bag down. "You fly off the handle and go charging in, and you put not just yourself but the entire team at risk."

Steve _never_ slams his bag down. It's one thing Tony's noticed, how careful Steve always is with his stuff. Right now, though, his shirt is half-lying in a puddle, and he doesn't even seem to notice.

He must be really upset.

"Yeah, okay." Tony tries to sound flippant and not hurt, as he pulls his shirt off over his head. So it was a tough assignment. So some things didn't exactly go their way.

So some things went wrong in a way that might, just maybe, have been Tony's fault.

Still, he doesn't need to stand here and be lectured by this... this stick-up-his-ass _prude_. He reverts to what has, for some reason, become his default posture toward Steve: flirtatious mockery. "If you know so much, why don't you come over here and show me some discipline? Hmm? Come on, Steve, we all know you're perfect at everything. Show me what you've got."

Steve's back stiffens. "Tony, don't."

"Don't what?"

He turns around, gesturing, but doesn't look at Tony. "Don't do... that. That thing that you always do, where you're making fun of me and you think that I don't know it." His voice goes all quiet, like it does when he's in his most dangerous mood. "For all of your flirting, we both know that you don't mean it. We both know that you do it just to mock me." 

He looks up at Tony. Their eyes meet, and something in Steve's eyes — an intensity, a certain narrowing of focus, like he's studying Tony — sends a shiver down Tony's spine. "I wonder..." Steve muses, even more softly. "I wonder what you would do, if I ever called your bluff."

Tony swallows. For some reason, his mouth feels dry. Still, he has a reputation to maintain, and Steve won't actually... he's shown no sign of... "Bring it on," he manages to say, hoping that he sounds convincing. "I'm serious." 

This is getting uncomfortable, delving too near to ideas and impulses that he's not wanted to examine too closely. 

"I swear, I'm not making fun of you, Steve," he lies. "I..." 

Between one word and the next, he's being pressed up against the locker room wall by 220 pounds of solid muscle. Steve is physically stronger, and they both knew it. That's why — so he tells himself — he doesn't bother to try pushing away. 

"You want me to teach you discipline," Steve says. "Fine. We'll start this way: you're not allowed to make any sound. None at all, do you hear me? No matter what I do."

"And what if I do?" Tony asks. "Wait, this doesn't count yet, right? Am I allowed to ask—" A heavy hand over his mouth muffles the end of the sentence.

Steve bends close, bringing his face right next to Tony's. For a second, Tony thinks that he's about to kiss him. Steve still has that strange, intent look in his blue eyes, and Tony can't read what he's going to do next. "Starting now," he says sternly. "And if you make a noise, any sound whatsoever... I'll simply stop what I'm doing, and leave. Immediately. That's all."

Tony immediately falls silent. Steve smiles. "Good," he says, grabbing Tony's wrists and shoving them against the wall, up above his head. "Rule number two: don't move, and I mean not a muscle. Are we understood? You may nod your head once in reply."

Tony nods.

The position that they're in now, with Steve holding Tony's wrists above his head, means that their bodies are closely pressed together. There's no chance that Steve isn't aware of his perfectly natural response to the situation, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by it.

Well. This has certainly taken an unexpected turn.

Tony is nothing if not competitive, though, and now that he's in, he's determined to see it through. Steve wants him to remain motionless and silent? He'll be the stillest, quietest billionaire playboy genius you've ever seen.

Steve leans back, and studies Tony speculatively, looking him up and down. His eyes linger around Tony's crotch, and his smile grows wider.  
Reaching one hand forward, he gently cups Tony's groin and gives it a gentle squeeze. His hand is warm through the thin under-armor fabric, and Tony's prick, already hard, practically stands up and salutes.

_Aye aye, Cap._

There's no hiding it now. No mistaking the direction this is going.

Steve closes his fist slightly, pulling the fabric up and down over Tony's dick, drawing it tight against his balls. Massaging him through it. Tony's breath comes faster; the muscles in his legs clench. He can feel a bead of sweat gathering on his brow. With every stroke, it becomes increasingly difficult not to thrust his hips forward, not to arch his back and moan. 

Steve keeps going, with a look of infinite patience, jerking him off slowly through his thin, black underwear. It's relentless. While he does it, he looks straight into Tony's eyes with a tiny smirk of amusement, like he enjoys watching him struggle.

And it is a struggle. Tony holds out, though, resisting the temptation to grab Steve, to rub himself against him, to give back as good as he is getting. He bites his lip hard to keep from gasping, hoping that it doesn't count as movement.

He can see it in Steve's eyes, the moment he decides to amp things up. The other man reaches up with his other hand and slides it down Tony's chest, over one sensitive nipple, down his belly, to his hip. He holds it for a moment in his hand, pressing Tony back against the wall, keeping him in place. That feeling, Steve's hands holding Tony's hips, holding them down while he... does whatever he wants... It sends Tony's mind to all kinds of absolutely filthy scenes.

That, by itself, is almost enough to make him come.

He's very close, when suddenly Steve slides both of his hands to Tony's waistband, pushing it down. He can feel his underwear caught on the top of his cock, tugging on it. The sensation is teasing, sublime.

Steve reaches down, trailing his fingers down the well-groomed patch of hair, and wraps a fist around Tony's bare cock, finally freeing it from the garment. Tony can feel his skin, Steve's actual skin, against his own, against his... and he's seeing stars, he can't...

Steve squeezes and tugs gently, and he loses it.

He moans, almost in anguish, and thrusts his hips forward, trying to get Steve to move faster. To go harder. To do _more_.

The moment the sound leaves his mouth, Steve pulls his hand away and steps back, immediately disconnecting. Tony stumbles forward and almost falls over, letting out a loud string of curses. "Steve, no... hey, I'm sorry. Let's start over..."

Steve just shakes his head. "See?" he says. "Like I said. You lack discipline."

"No! Man, you can't just..." But Steve has already turned and is walking away, toward the showers. "Fuck! Steve... Fuck!"

He's gone.

_Discipline._

Tony sags back against the wall, and looks down at his protruding cock. Shaking his head, he ruefully wraps his hand around it and begins to finish himself off. He comes quickly, but still feels unsatisfied, after.

In the end, he's left with one burning question: what in the Nine Worlds prompted Steve to do _that_?

\------

**epilogue**

He avoids Steve for most of the evening. He's not totally sure why — he just doesn't feel ready to face him again yet. After... that.

He gets away with it, too, all the way until he's heading up the stairs to his private apartments, to start getting ready for bed. He rounds a bend, and there's Steve, coming down the stairway with a sketchbook and pencil case in his hands. He swallows, looks up and nods, hoping that Steve will just let him pass. No such luck, though — as they brush by one another, Steve grabs his arm.

His touch immediately reminds Tony of earlier, and he — Tony Stark, man of the world, who never _ever_ blushes — can feel his face burning. His skin is probably the same color as his armor. 

Steve smiles at him, though, and leans in close, speaking quietly in Tony's ear. "How does a person get better at something?"

"What?" Tony doesn't know what he was expecting, but a rhetorical question wasn't it. "Oh, um... by practicing, I guess."

"Exactly." And Steve winks, he actually _winks_ , and there's that smile again — the new one. "Tomorrow," he says, and then he turns and walks away.

"Tomorrow," Tony echoes, feeling stunned all over again. "Okay."


	5. Evergreen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Marvel  
>  **Characters:** Phil Coulson, Clint Barton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is set in an AU where Phil didn't die in the Avengers, but after he was healed, SHIELD gave him plastic surgery and a new identity and packed him off into hiding. They did this because they were afraid that otherwise the Avengers would uncover their deception, and turn against them.
> 
> Also in this AU, Phil and Hawkeye had kind of a mutual attraction/flirtation thing going on before he died, but they were by no means a couple.

The man whose name used to be Phil Coulson knows that he has a problem. He just can't quite bring himself to care. 

This is the first winter. This is the first December, the first Christmas. Since he died.

Since he died and came back with a new name, a new face... a whole new life. A life that doesn't hold a candle to the old one.

Many days, now, he wishes that they hadn't bothered to bring him back. That he had died on the operating table, with a magic spear stuck through his heart. It would be better than this.

He goes to work every day as an accountant — a fucking accountant. The people at work call him Dave Collins, and he answers to that name. And then he goes home to his semi-furnished studio apartment — he hasn't really bothered to decorate — and drinks himself into a stupor, until it's time to go to sleep.

Tonight, though, he got ambitious, or maybe just tired of living constantly in the dark. Getting up in the dark, going to work in the dark, coming home in the dark. He feels like he's beginning to forget about the sun. So, chasing some semblance of warmth and cheer, he went down to the corner bar.

Now he's finishing up a fresh round of whiskey-on-the-rocks, and the world is starting to recede back into that comfortable numbness that has become his lifeline. He's aware enough to know that he'd better stop now and head home, while he's still able to walk. He'll have a nightcap there, and probably black out. Such is the routine.

There's a small city park in the lot next to the bar. He didn't pay much attention to it when he was going in — too focused on acquiring his first drink — but now the glare of bright floodlights causes him to look up and squint. He sees that there's a Christmas tree seller set up there, with both cut trees and live ones, propped up with their roots in bags. The miniature pine forest is filled with a few late browsers — a mother and her son, two dads with their infant daughter, a young couple strolling arm in arm. All of them examining and discussing the trees, no doubt trying to select the perfect one. 

A gust of wind brings the smell of the pine trees to him, and for a moment, it's enough to cut through the alcoholic daze. Phil — he still thinks of himself with his old name, he can't help it — wanders over, and stares up at one of the trees, a smallish but perfectly-formed blue spruce. 

For just a second, he considers it. He could buy this tree right now; he has the cash. He could buy it and take it home, set it up in his apartment. Deck it out with lights and tinsel, and a gold star for the top. Brighten things up a little, let in just a tiny little bit of cheer. At the very least, it would change his apartment up, and give him something new to look at.

He shakes his head. The motion causes him to sway, slightly. What is he thinking? Of course he's not going to get a Christmas tree. What would be the point?

He turns around. There's someone standing a few paces behind him — Phil nearly stumbles into him. He mumbles an apology, already stepping around the man.

Then the stranger says, "Hey, sorry," and Phil's heart nearly leaps out of his chest. He would know that voice anywhere. 

It's _him_.

He looks up and surely enough, it's Clint. Clint Barton — Hawkeye. A man with whom Phil Coulson had... unfinished business.

To say the least.

"Hey, buddy, are you alright? You look kinda pale," Clint says, putting his hand on Phil's shoulder to steady him. Of course he doesn't recognize him — Phil, as "Dave Collins", looks completely different now.

He should turn around and walk away. He should say something polite, and immediately disengage. It's what SHIELD would want... and after all he signed the papers. He agreed. (Not that he had too much choice in the matter. The options, as they were presented to him, were witness protection, or "indefinite protective custody" — basically prison.) 

Instead, he nods over his shoulder and says, "Yeah, I'm fine. I was just looking at the tree." He winces at how inarticulate he sounds — like some kind of slurring drunk.

"Yeah, it's a nice one," Clint says. "You gonna get it?"

He shakes his head slowly, but his mind is racing at a million miles an hour. Should he say something? Does he dare? 

"Nah," he says awkwardly. "I don't really have a reason... I mean, I don't really have... you know. Anybody else to see it, or anything like that..." He really wishes now that his mind was clearer.

For the first time since he started his new life, Phil wishes that he wasn't drunk.

Clint nods, and looks sad for just a second. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

"How about you? I mean, uh, are you getting a tree?"

Clint shakes his head, too. "Actually I don't even live here. I just came to Portland because..." He shakes his head again. "It's a long story. I shouldn't bore you with it." He smiles at Phil, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.

Phil used to be a brave man. There must be a little bit of courage still left, somewhere within him, because he takes a deep breath and says, "You know what? I don't have anywhere to be. I'd love to hear a long story, if you're in the mood to talk." 

He has to know what Clint is doing here. It _can't_ be a coincidence. Can it?

Clint looks at him again, more intently this time. He studies Phil's new face for a moment, looking almost like he's puzzled by something. "Well," he says. "I had this... friend, who used to live here in Portland. Or had a place here, anyways. This friend, he... passed away, this year. Suddenly and unexpectedly. And the worst part is that I wasn't even there, when he died. I was supposed to be there, and I wasn't." He shakes his head, and looks up at the sky.

Phil has been punched in the gut many times, and that's pretty much exactly what this feels like. Or like somebody has a hand wrapped around his heart, and they keep squeezing.

It's a rare clear night in Portland, and the stars are twinkling white, valiantly outshining the wash of city light pollution. "I was supposed to come here to Portland, to visit him," Clint says. "But things kept coming up, just, like, one thing after another, and I never got to. I could never make it work. And then he died, and I wasn't there, and now I'll never see him again." He delivers these sentences in a perfectly flat monotone, betraying no emotion, but Phil knows him well enough that he sees right through his skin.

Fuck SHIELD. There's no way that he can let this pass without speaking. Not after Clint came all the way out here, without even knowing that he had any reason to...

Phil puts his hand on Clint's shoulder. "Clint Barton," he says.

The other man's eyes widen and then narrow. His right hand moves to his trousers pocket, and the weapon that Phil has no doubt is hidden there. "Who are you?" he demands. "How do you know my name?"

Phil smiles. "I'm not your enemy, I promise," he says. "You said you had a long story? Well, mine is even longer. But I'll tell you everything, I promise..." A brilliant idea strikes him. "... while you help me bring this tree home, and get it set up in my apartment."

"Now why would I do that?"

Phil narrowly stops himself from rolling his eyes. Hawkeye sounds tough, but he knows Clint well enough to know that there's no way he's going to let go of this mystery. Not now. "Because it's really fucking dark and kinda cold, and _my_ long story is way too long to tell in public. And you know you want to hear it. Now, come on, help me find the salesman."

Clint exhales pensively, and nods. "Yeah, alright. Fine. I've got my eye on you, though."

Phil just smiles. 

"Perfect. Follow me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Solstice!


	6. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Marvel  
>  **Characters:** Black Widow, Hawkeye, Captain Marvel

"...I can't believe you told her."

"What? It was for a good cause. I didn't realize that it was this big secret..."

"I can't believe you _told_ her!"

"I was getting you a present!"

Natasha stopped so suddenly that Clint ran into her. "What are you talking about?"

Clint made a face and righted himself, automatically checking his bow. He held out his hands in a conciliatory fashion. "You know what? I think this conversation got off on a bad foot. Let's start over. Okay?"

"Get to the point."

"Sheesh. Alright... Hello, Natasha, how are you doing upon this fine and merry day?" Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, and he quickly continued, "Because I am an awesome person, I happen to know that today is your birthday. Because I am a great listener, I am also aware that ever since childhood, you've had a series of recurring dreams in which you could fly. And, because I am your _friend_ , I know that whenever you talk about those dreams, you get this sort of faraway look in your eyes, and it is the only time — the _only_ time, _ever_ — that I have ever seen you wearing any sort of expression that could remotely be described as 'wistful'".

"The content of my dreams is privileged information," Natasha said in a hard tone, her arms crossed. Clint rolled his eyes.

"So," he continued, "because I am your _friend_ , I mentioned those facts to Captain Marvel — in a conversation that, may I add, was _much_ more low-key and pleasant than this one — and she said that she would be more than delighted to take you flying sometime. There, alright? Are you happy? I got you a chance to go flying, like in your dreams. Happy birthday." He spread his hands, as if presenting. "Now, tell me how much I fucked it up this time. Go on."

Natasha stared at him for a minute, and then she sighed and looked down. "She really said yes?"

"Oh, for — Of _course_ she said yes, Natasha. Carol is your friend too, you know. Or at least she could be, if you ever bothered to get to know her."

"When?"

"Right now, if you want. She said that she was free until this evening."

Natasha nodded. "Okay. I... I guess I'll go talk to her."

"Awesome. See? I told you it was for a good cause. Happy birthday, 'Tash." 

Clint started to turn away, but Natasha stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I got mad. And.... thanks, Clint."

He wasn't planning to hug her; it just kind of happened. (Whatever, he could be embarrassed later.) For a moment he thought she was going to hit him, but after a few seconds, she relaxed and returned the hug, patting him awkwardly on the back.

"Happy birthday, 'Tash," he said again. "It's been a hell of a year, hasn't it."

"A hell of a year," Natasha echoed. "Just like every other." She pulled away. "But seriously, Clint... thanks."

"Yeah, you're welcome. Now go on and talk to Carol," he said. 

She nodded. "I will." She started to turn and walk away, but at the door she turned back. "And, Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for figuring out a way to make my dreams come true." She winked at him, and was gone.

He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha/Carol, y/n? I think I ship it.
> 
> Marvel needs more femships.


	7. Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Sleepy Hollow  
>  **Character:** Jenny Mills

**_"Remember the first rule: All guns are always loaded."_ **

She has been a bullet since the day that her life changed. Since she realized that her world — the known, friendly world, where you could trust what you could see — hung balanced on a wire that was strung across a pit. 

Since she realized that war was coming, and that it wasn't going to stop.

Since she learned that when the time came, the only weapon she'd be able to rely on was her own.

 

**_"Remember the second rule: Never point a gun at anything you are not willing to destroy."_ **

At first, she was a bullet searching for a gun. 

What she needed found her, as if it was her fate. A mentor; a patron. A whetstone, to sharpen up her spine, and a crucible, to forge the steel inside her bones.

She never expected it to be _him_ — this old white cop, what beyond Earth did he know — but August Corbin found her, and she allowed him to shoot her all across the globe. She made her home in an asylum, but they were kidding themselves if they believed those walls ever could hold her. She tore through Mexico, Pakistan, Sudan, Malaysia, Tibet — and everywhere she went, she left a trail of bodies in her wake.

He told her that they were the right bodies — that she was a soldier, and that there is no murder in a war. And she believed him. Surely it must be true. 

Surely there was evil that needed eradicating.

Surely there was a way that a bullet could do some good.

 

**_"Remember the third rule: Keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on the target."_ **

When she was a child, she saw a demon walking toward her, and behind him, four white trees. On that day, the world closed around her like a book, and she has been running through a story ever since.

Every story has an ending. 

She knows her ending's name. The word is etched inside her eyelids, when she tries to sleep at night.

When Corbin dies, she knows that Moloch must be close.

 

**_"Remember the fourth rule: Be absolutely certain of your target, and what lies beyond it."_ **

She's never given any thought to after. She's always been a single bullet, hurtling toward one goal. In her mind, she calls herself the Sword of Michael: the wrath of God, made flesh. 

She's always been a little glad, in the deepest part of her being, that Abbie didn't stay. The wrath of God cannot afford distractions. But now she's back — her and that well-preserved zombie of a Brit. And, she can't deny... him, too. Frank Irving.

What is it with her and cops?

Now suddenly there are _people_ in her life, multiple ones, and she's starting to care about them, and it's making her feel strange. For so long, she's been a bullet.

For so long, she's lived within the story's page.

Abbie and Frank Irving tempt her to think about the future: about a day when war is done. This poses a grave danger.

A gun is good; the end is close. And a bullet has no use, outside of killing.

The Sword of Michael sights. Exhales. 

Shoots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Source for the four rules of gun safety.](http://www.corneredcat.com/article/firearms-safety/the-four-rules/)


	8. Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Arrow  
>  **Characters:** Sara Lance, Felicity Smoak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after the events of _State v. Queen_.

Dear Felicity,

I have updated my encryption key as per your instructions, and installed the encryption software you recommended. Thanks for the advice.

It is very important that our continued contact be known to absolutely no one. Regarding your request: I'm afraid that must include Oliver, and so I must ask you to continue to keep our correspondence a secret from him. I have my reasons.

You're going to have to trust me on this one.

Regarding your last message: I'm very sad to hear that you were taken captive, and I'm glad that everything worked out okay. Believe me, I understand how hard it is to be at another person's mercy — to have your freedom and your space and your dignity violated like that.

Something that you wrote struck me, though, and I wanted to respond.

You said that you're afraid you've become a liability to the team, that lately you've caused more difficulty than you've helped. I won't bother arguing the objective fact of that; I understand that this isn't a rational matter. (I will say that there's a reason Oliver started coming to you in the first place, and that's because he needed skills and information that only you could provide. And nothing about that fact has changed.) 

I'll just say this: by all means, get self-defense training. Buy a gun, and practice with it every single day. Learn to think tactically, and assess a scene for danger; learn about cover, line-of-sight, blind spots, ricochet zones. All of these ideas are very good, and I'm glad that you're thinking along these lines. You're participating in a dangerous endeavour, and Oliver isn't the only one who would be distressed if you were hurt.

I would also recommend doing some careful thinking about when to call for backup, and _who_ , exactly, you can call. I'm sure that my father, for example, would be more than happy to assist you in such situations in the future, without asking too many inconvenient questions. He's a good man, and he genuinely wants to help.

The part that I would argue with is the part where you said you wish you were more like me.

You say that you are soft, whereas people like me (and Oliver, and Diggle, and to a large degree my Dad) are hard. You see this as a flaw, something that you should rush to change.

I disagree.

First off, understand that the way we became hard was through years of hellish, savage experience. I didn't get the way I am overnight, and neither did Oliver, and that road is not a road that I would wish for anyone to walk. Especially not you.

I know that Oliver would agree.

The truth is that in an ideal world, people like Oliver and me wouldn't exist, because we wouldn't be needed. In a fair, just world, there would be no vigilantes. We do not live in that world, but people like me and Oliver — hard people — need to be reminded of the world we're fighting for. Otherwise, we lose ourselves. And when that happens, when there is no reminder of softness and sanity in our lives, it becomes all too easy to slip further and further inside our own little hells. To fall into fighting for money, or for fame. Or for no reason at all.

Again, I speak from personal experience.

Oliver is a hard man, and he lives surrounded by other hard men and women. Your presence in his life provides that necessary softness — that lifeline to the real, regular world.

I envy him very much for that.

So, yes: become smarter, become savvier, learn how to defend yourself. But don't become too hardened. Don't become like me.

The world already has one of me, and that's enough.

Yours,  
S

PS. Thanks for the videos of Laurel and Dad. It was good to see their faces — even through the lens of a security cam.


	9. Iced Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Marvel  
>  **Characters:** Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Thor Odinsson, Loki Odinsson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A college AU _and_ coffeeshop AU all in one.

"You'd better take that off." Natasha gestured at Clint's purple apron, with its printed cup-and-saucer logo. Above the logo, in large white letters, it said S.A.U.C.E.R — the name of the coffee shop where they both worked. "I doubt the baristas at Valhalla Brews would like you coming in wearing the logo of their competition."

"Damn," Clint swore. "I always forget." He quickly untied the apron from around his neck, stuffing it awkwardly into the half-open pouch of his backpack, while Natasha impatiently held the door.

"Hey, guys," Steve greeted them. He and his genius roommate Tony were already seated at a table, with their Bio homework spread out in front of them. Next to Tony was Bruce, who was in some ways the key to the whole arrangement — he knew Clint from Physics classes, and Tony from Robotics Club. Tony knew Steve, and Clint knew Natasha. So when they all happened to land in the same Biology section, they quickly formed a close-knit study group.

And then there was Thor.

The doors to Valhalla Brews slammed against the walls, and a large, jacked, broad-shouldered wall of a young man strode through. He had a fine head of flowing, golden hair, which he wore loose around his shoulders. It was a look that very few men could pull off, but it suited him just fine.

Everyone on the whole entire campus knew Thor.

Between his exotic, Scandinavian background, his natural good looks and athleticism, and the fact that his father was rumored to be filthy rich, Thor Odinsson had quickly become a legend on campus. It didn't hurt that he threw legendary parties, too, with music and carousing and heaps of food — not to mention vast rivers of booze. In fact, his ability to hold his drink was nearly as legendary as his impeccable abs.

Most people were surprised to find out that he was majoring in Religious Studies, with a focus on pre-Christian polytheism.

"My friends!" Thor boomed, in his unique Norwegian accent. (Thor almost always boomed.) "It is wonderful to see you!" He draped an arm around the back of the nearest person, Bruce, and squeezed his shoulders in a half-hug that would be awkward coming from anyone else. Bruce, who wasn't really a hugger, looked rather alarmed. "How goes your study?"

"It's fine, Thor," Tony said, flipping a page. "How goes your partying? Boff any more cheerleaders lately?"

"Indeed!" Thor grinned widely. "I do believe that, following this past weekend's revelries, I have surpassed you in the tally, my friend!"

Natasha rolled her eyes. Thor and Tony had an ongoing competition to see who could sleep with the most women around campus, which would normally be creepy, but she couldn't even be mad. Thor was just so... genuine, so honest, in everything that he did.

Besides, she was pretty sure the cheerleaders knew exactly what they were getting into.

"Alright guys," Bruce said, "I made flashcards for the quiz..."

"Whoa, hold up," Clint held one hand up. "I need caffeination, stat. Thor, can you work your magic with the barista?" Thor somehow had a way of getting them free coffee every time they met here to study.

"Indeed," Thor said, and stood. He turned toward the counter, but something he saw there made him suddenly stop. All of the color left his face, and he frowned.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked, and the rest of them all craned their heads to look.

The barista was a skinny, pale person with shoulder-length, wavy black hair. At first, Natasha couldn't tell if they were male or female, but then he moved, and she saw that it was a man.

Clint whistled under his breath. "Leather pants at work, eh? That's a bold move."

The barista was indeed wearing leather pants, and instead of the standard red Valhalla Brews apron, he had on a t-shirt that looked like it was for some kind of metal band. It said, "Children of Ymir — World Tour 2012", with some kind of Celtic-looking artwork of a tree.

"Hey, it's just a goth kid, Thor," Tony said, laying his hand on Thor's arm. "Don't worry about it. Some people like to go around pretending that they're all dark and obsessed with death, that's all."

"What's he doing?" Natasha asked.

They all looked again. Despite the fact that a table-full of people were blatantly staring at him, the young man seemed oblivious. He was caught up in preparing some kind of drink.

Natasha watched as he poured in steaming-hot frothed milk. He followed this with a teaspoonful of some kind of bright orange powder, which he stirred in vigorously. The glass he was mixing in was clear, and Natasha could see that it didn't take long for whatever-it-was to dissolve. 

He smiled a little smile to himself, picked up a spoon, and tapped the side of the cup three times. On the third tap, almost too quickly to follow, ice somehow spread throughout the steaming-hot liquid. Natasha watched as, within seconds, the entire cup turned into a frappucino-like slush.

Tony clapped his hands together in applause, and the young man startled, staring up at them as if he'd been unaware of their presence. When he saw Thor, his face grew even paler, and he quickly looked away. "Dude, that was awesome! What was it, some kind of chemical reaction?" Tony called out. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Hey, what's your name?"

The young man looked up again. "Thanks," he said, studying the group. He had some kind of an accent. It took Natasha a few seconds to realize that it sounded similar to Thor's. "My name is Luke."

Thor slammed his fist against the table, causing it to shake. Everyone jumped and stared at him, but he was glaring at the barista. "Brother," he said, "why do you insist on denying your heritage in this way? There is no shame in carrying the name of Loki Odinsson!"

"He's your _brother_?" "Wait, you have a brother?" " _He's_ your brother?" "He's _your_ brother?" Members of the study group simultaneously exclaimed.

Thor folded his massive arms across his massive chest. "As much as he wishes to deny it — yes. This is my brother, Loki."

"It's _Luke_ ," the barista said with gritted teeth, slamming down a cup. "Are you going to order any coffee, or what?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The holidays messed up my writing schedule big time, but I'm back now.
> 
> This is obviously the beginning of a story and not a story proper. There would be Business Intrigue, with Loki wanting to take over his father's chain of coffeeshops and introduce his crazy futuristic shapeshifting beverages, but Odin wants Thor to take over because he believes that he has better "leadership potential". Also, Loki is adopted and he's actually Sami (indigenous people of Scandinavia), while his adopted family is Norse. I might write more of it in future chapters.


	10. Jungle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Sherlock  
>  **Characters:** Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
> 
> A werebeast AU.
> 
> Contains depictions of violence between animals, including death (not of a major character).

"Wait." Sherlock held his hand out, ordering John to stop. He bent down, examining the brush at the edge of the clearing. They'd tracked the fleeing narcoterrorist all the way from Santarem, following his tracks through the dense Amazonian rainforest. It was incredibly hot, and John was getting bitten by mosquitos, and he badly, badly wanted to Change.

Sherlock had insisted that they both stay in human form, though, so that they could communicate more easily, and carry more supplies.

John looked around the clearing. At first, it looked just like every other mile of jungle they'd been bush-bashing through for the past several hours — green, dark, and overgrown with plants. And bugs... So many bugs.

Had he mentioned all of the bugs?

A flash caught John's eye, distracting him from his discomfort. His eyes flickered sideways to Sherlock, who was still closely examining the ground — probably trying to figure out the man's favorite color based on his footprints, or something like that. 

John kept himself very still and waited, carefully unfocusing his eyes. It was a skill quickly learned by every soldier on patrol. You didn't pay attention to individual objects — instead, you watched for patterns. Flows of movement.

He saw a flash of orange, and suddenly the once-random motion of the underbrush snapped into focus. There was someone... No.

Some _thing_. A large animal...

He saw the telltale traces of another large form. Two animals.

Three?

"Sherlock," he hissed under his breath, his hand going to the revolver that he always carried at his belt. "Sherlock, company. Three. Probably weres."

"Hold them off," Sherlock hissed back.

John shook his head. "Hold them off," he muttered to himself. "Sure thing, Sherlock, I'll just fight off three—"

An orange blur, diving toward Sherlock. His gun in his hand, firing, before he could even consciously aim.

A weretiger, bloodied and hissing in the middle of the clearing, tearing up the foliage as it writhed and spasmed on its back.

This was quickly followed by a brief instant of searing pain, and then by the sense of every cell in his body _opening_. It was the Change, overtaking him without bothering to ask his conscious, human self. (That was known to happen, in moments of extreme stress.)

Bones shifting, growing, shrinking, organs reconfiguring. Teeth lengthening, hair sprouting. Claws splitting open tender skin.

It happened quickly, from the perspective of outside, though to John it always felt like it took several minutes. At the end of it, in the place of a small human, there stood a very, very large wolf. (Most people's were-forms roughly correlated with their human size. John, for some reason, was an exception; his wolf form was actually larger and heavier than he was as a man.)

While his form was still settling, the other two weretigers rushed him. He was larger than each of them, stockier and stronger, but there were two of them, and they both had wicked claws.

He gathered his haunches and sprung up, meeting them in midair. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and made him want to howl. He couldn't, though; his fangs were already buried deep in tiger flesh and fur. 

He managed to come down on top of one of them, with the other one clinging to his side, trying to slash at his belly. He struck out with his powerful hind legs and managed to knock that one away, and at the same time flung himself over and around the one beneath him.

When he got his jaws around that one's throat, its fight was quickly over.

As a human, John took no glory from the act of killing. He would use violence, it was true, but only in self-defense (or Sherlock-defense, which was practically the same thing). As a wolf, however, the blood on his muzzle tasted fresh and sweet, and he wanted more.

The second tiger leapt over its friend's corpse, trying to pin him again. He rolled, and then came up clawing and biting. This time, he allowed it to gain the upper hand, for just a second. Underneath a tiger was not a place that anyone typically wanted to be, but in his wolf form, John was strong enough to hold it up and keep its deadly, snapping jaws away. Meanwhile, the position gave him ready access to the weretiger's soft belly. He bit down hard, jaws crunching through bone, and felt the spurt of fresh, hot blood and the strong flavor of soft tissue.

In its death throes, the tiger flailed. One of its hindlegs came forward, claws extended, and made sharp and blinding contact with his face.

Electric burning pain filled him, and this time he did howl. The scratch must be deep. He hoped that the weretiger's claws weren't tipped with poison; that was not unheard of, among professional fighting weres. Blood dripped into his eyes, obscuring his vision. With the last of his strength, he tossed the now-dead tiger off of him, and rolled over on his side.

Only to see the first tiger, the one he'd shot, spring off the ground in a flying leap toward him, snarling, wicked claws fully extended.

He was caught unprepared. He was dazed, wounded, tired; he tried to roll away, but he was too slow. 

This one was going to get him.

Right at the top of the weretiger's leaping arc, though, a sleek black blur rammed into it from the side, diverting its course. It slammed to the ground, hissing and clawing at the lithe, jet-black panther that was doing its best to take out a good chunk of the weretiger's side.

John could feel himself losing form. Losing blood. Losing the Change.

Sherlock's panther form was a lot smaller and lighter than a tiger, and not nearly as strong. In a direct fight, it would kill him.

It probably wouldn't take that long.

John closed his blood-smeared eyes, and opened them again in the form of a human man, just in time to see the tiger take a swipe at Sherlock and connect. Growling and bleeding from several wounds, it tossed the panther off of itself and hurled it to the ground, where Sherlock lay still. Dazed, or worse...

John looked away.

And saw his gun.

Somewhere within himself, he found the strength to run. Scoop it up, aim. The picture came to him like a still-frame, like someone paused a movie: the tiger standing over the panther, growling, wicked fangs bared. Preparing to deliver that final, spine-crushing blow.

He pulled the trigger, and the world sped up again.

\-----

They were lucky. Neither of them had any broken bones or major trauma, and their cuts, though bloody, were all shallow and avoided major veins. 

When Sherlock opened his eyes, back in his human form, naked and shaking and covered in blood, the very first thing he did was look around the trampled, mud-and-blood-filled clearing, roll his eyes, and say, "Well, great job. Now the trail's well and truly lost."

John clenched his hands so hard that the knuckles turned white. "Change," he said, his voice rough and tense.

"What, again?"

"Change," he repeated. It wasn't a request.

Sherlock obeyed, and John followed suit. The gigantic wolf stood facing the sleek black panther.

John stalked over to Sherlock and flopped down on top of him, careful not to do any harm with his superior weight. The panther hissed and batted at his muzzle, and John growled, baring his teeth. Sherlock subsided, and relaxed.

In human form, Sherlock was undeniably the boss, but when they Changed, so did the power dynamic. When both men were in their were forms, John instinctively took charge. 

After a few moments, Sherlock arched up and rubbed the top of his head against John's neck, patting his side carefully with one velvet paw. John licked Sherlock's fur, careful to do it in the right direction. (Sherlock was unbelievably fussy about his fur.)

Some things were just easier in animal form — easier shown than said. That had always been their way.

In a few minutes, they would both Change back, and continue the chase. But right now, he just needed to lie here for a moment and listen to Sherlock's heartbeat. Some things went beyond speech.


	11. Kleptomania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Marvel  
>  **Characters:** Loki, Frigga, Odin

The Lady Frigga's workshop is lit by four golden fountains, streaming endlessly through finely-worked glass tubes. There are many such fountain-lamps throughout Asgard, but these ones were made by the Lady Herself — etched and charged and blessed with her own voice, her own two hands.

To young Loki, they are the most beautiful objects in the world. 

He loves to come here, to his mother's workshop. Partly it's because of all the wondrous items that are kept here. There, a jeweled dagger crackling with blue light; here, a smooth dodecahedral crystal that shows within itself the patterns and the motions of the stars; over there, a small clockwork bird with cloisonné wings that recites poetry in a melodious, flutelike voice. Everywhere he looks, the shelves and benches are filled with the Lady Frigga's works in progress, be they new, broken, or repaired.

But mostly it's because of the things that he gets to _learn_ here. 

The Lady had a hard fight with Odin, to get his permission to train her son in magic. Loki isn't supposed to know this, but he does. 

He knows that Odin was determined that his sons would be raised as warriors and proper men. He knows that in order to force Odin to consent to Loki's magical training, the Lady Frigga was forced to invoke the legal right of any master crafter to freely take on an apprentice. And he knows that this action was the cause of a rift between them that continues to this very day. 

He knows that he owes his mother everything, for her magical training has quickly become his refuge and the highlight of his day. Sometimes, he thinks that it is the only good thing in his life.

Today, though, is extra special, because today Loki is starting a very special course.

Today, the Lady Frigga is going to teach him to bend Time.

\-----

"Time," the Lady says, "is like a woven fabric. But where a sheet of cloth is flat, this fabric infinitely fills every dimension, stretching outward and inward in every possible direction, all around us. It is everywhere, and it is completely invisible to normal men. Nonetheless, a trained mind can learn to reach out and pluck the threads of that fabric—" Her speech falters and then the outline of her body blurs, such that Loki cannot look at her directly. A split second later, she resolidifies, several feet from away where she had been standing. "— and warp them and stretch them, and bend them to her will." 

Something within Loki, when he hears this, says, _Yes._

_This is mine. This is knowledge that I must possess._

He pays close attention to the Lady's instructions, as she teaches him all of the proper steps: the meditations, the physical stance, the complex calculations that he must be able to perform without thinking, at top speed. It is not simple, and it is not the sort of thing that can come naturally to anyone. But Loki finds that the knowledge clicks into place, finding a ready home within his heart. 

It's like there was a part of him that already knew this. It feels natural, like regaining the use of a long-atrophied limb. And he will never forget the first moment that it _clicks_ — not for the rest of his millennia-long life. 

Lady Frigga has him doing an exercise that involves dropping a gold coin from a few inches above the table, and trying to bend Time to catch it before it falls. Over and over again he fails, messing up on one or another complex step. And then, suddenly, it happens. 

It works. 

He clearly feels the thread of Time. He _sees_ , suddenly, how to pluck it and to bend its strand around him.

He steps through.

The light in the room blurs and becomes muddy, and the world outside slides into a colored whirl. If he focuses, he can make out separate objects, but their surfaces are blurred and indistinct. He immediately loses interest in the coin; there's simply too much else to look at.

The golden fountain-lamps shine brightly, looking more beautiful than ever. He stands and walks over to one of them, at what feels like a normal speed, and reaches out a hand to pluck a single golden photon. He holds it between his fingers, studying the beauty of its infinitely complex wave/particle form. It is more lovely than the loveliest flower grown in Asgard — and it is something that most people are incapable of comprehending.

A surge of fierce joy erodes his concentration, causing him to lose the thread. He is abruptly wrenched back into regular spacetime. He looks around, disoriented and briefly nauseous, and hears a faint clinking sound behind him.

It's the gold coin, falling down onto the metal bench. 

He turns, to find the Lady closely watching. She claps her hands together twice, and says, "An excellent start." She smiles at him fondly, and holds out her arms. "I'm proud of you, Loki. Already, after only nine decades of life, you have accomplished a thing that many sorcerers fail at after centuries of work." He runs to Frigga's side, and they embrace. 

He is making his mother proud, and it feels good. He will always be a disappointment to his father; he knows already that this is a simple fact. But at least he can live up to the Lady's expectations. He can be _good_ at this, and she will love him for it. 

He can be his mother's son.

\-----

Distances are always a bit fluid, in the Lady Frigga's workshop. So much magic has been worked here, for so many eons, that it has permanently warped the fabric of space. The general effect, at least to Loki's perception, is that the room seems larger and more spacious wherever Frigga goes, but as he moves away from her, the walls and ceiling loom in close. Even the golden lights of Frigga's fountains seem to fade.

When he is close to the door, the workshop feeling cramped and pressed around him, Loki trips over a bench. He bites his lip to keep from cursing so that the Lady will not hear, but there is a thud. Something falling to the floor, knocked from its place. He looks back, but his mother has already turned away.

He looks down, and sees the stone.

He recognizes it immediately. How could he ever forget the silver-etched, heart-shaped opal that the Lady Frigga wore during the signing the Treaty of Non-Aggression with the fire giants, not thirty years ago? She'd worn it in a silver setting on a silver chain, and the pendant looked so lovely that it seemed to glow with its own inner light.

Of course, the stone is more than just a pretty gem: it is also a potent seithstone, one that can amplify and focus the bearer's energy. It is one of the Lady's masterworks — a thing that she created to show off her skill and wealth. But the Lady Frigga owns a great many gems, and this one must not be so precious, Loki thinks.

Not if she's left it like this, discarded on a bench.

He studies it for a few seconds. Then he focuses his will in the way that his mother taught him, and grasps a thread of time, and pulls it tight. Moving too quickly for a normal eye to follow, he reaches down and snatches up the stone, pulling it quickly up into his sleeve. Then he loosens the thread, and straightens, and turns toward the door.

Why he took the seithstone, he doesn't really know. It was partly from a wish to try his newfound powers, but there's something more than that.

As he pulls open a drawer and slips the stone carefully inside, he thinks that he just wants to keep a little something for the future, secret and safe. A reminder of this day, when he feels proud and happy. 

A reminder of this day, when he feels loved.

\-----

A few decades later, during the fallout from the cutting of Sif's hair, Odin orders a search of Loki's chambers. During it, a guard discovers Frigga's gem in Loki's drawer.

Loki finds out about it when Frigga comes down to see him in his glass-walled cell. It's the first time that she has come to see him since his arrest. He bows his head in greeting, and his heart leaps up in hope at the sight of his mother — his friend. The one who is always able to see his side, even when nobody else will.

Surely she must be the bearer of good news.

The Lady stares at him for a moment, intently. Her noble face shows no emotion. She raises her right hand and presses it against the glass.

Cradled in her palm is the heart-shaped seithstone.

Loki stares at it. He had forgotten, honestly forgotten, that it was there. When he first took it, so long ago, he would open the drawer and hold it every day, admiring its lustre and its deep magical weight, but over the years he had lost interest.

He never even tried to use its powers. (To be frank, his own sorcery is great enough that he doesn't need the help.)

"I trusted you," Frigga says. "But you've proved that I was wrong." Loki opens his mouth to explain, but she curtly shakes her head and makes the hand-gesture for silence. He falls still. "I thought that you respected me," she says, "but you stole from me, Loki. And then you lied to me, by not coming forward when I brought up the missing stone."

"When the guards found the stone, I looked back through time to that evening, Loki. I saw you watching your father and I discuss it. And I saw you close your mouth, and turn away." There are tears in the Lady's eyes, and each one feels like a gut-punch. 

She shakes her head again. "I love you, and I always will. But I know now that you are a liar and a thief, and I cannot respect you. And I will never again trust you."

When Frigga is finished speaking, she opens her hand, and lets the gem fall to the floor. The opal heart hits the stone, and shatters, and something inside of Loki shatters too.

It splinters and cracks, and crumbles, and is gone, beyond repair. Beyond all hope.

He stands there frozen for a moment, seeing green. Then he looks up at his mother.

Loki slowly grins.


	12. Lame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Fandom:** Firefly  
>  **Characters:** River Tam, Simon Tam, Kaylee Frye, Malcolm Reynolds, Zoe Washburne, Jayne Cobb
> 
> Note: Contains a depiction of intentional self-injury.

"I think we should leave her."

"Jayne!" Kaylee glared at him. "We're not going to _leave_ her!"

Jayne Cobb crossed his arms across his chest, and glared right back. "She jumped off a _building_. She's back to being..." He whirled his finger around his temple. "All koo-koo crazytown. We might be living large now, after that last haul, but we still can't afford to bring that kind of crazy with us." He jabbed his finger accusingly toward the hospital's front doors.

"Jayne." Kaylee said it again. This time, it almost sounded like a sob.

"Hey." He shrugged. "She wants to go all suicidal? I say let her do it. Maybe it's for the best."

" _Jayne._ " This time it was Mal that said it, and Jayne's mouth immediately snapped shut. Even he wasn't dumb enough to cross the captain, when he took that tone.

Kaylee broke the silence. "You know, I saw the whole thing happen," she said slowly. "I was standing next to Simon, right over there." She pointed toward the bench. "We were gonna buy some bread and feed the ligeons." She shook her head. "Out of nowhere, River handed Simon a credit strip. She said that it was 'for the hospital'." She laughed, but her laugh sounded tired and worn. "We thought that she'd decided to donate it to charity, or something. Simon was all..." She waved her hand vaguely. "Proud."

"Now, what I can't figure is, why in hell would she have planned and budgeted out money for her treatment, if her aim had been to die." Mal scratched his head. "That don't make no sense."

Jayne rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Hello, remember?" He made a face. "She's nuts? Ain't nobody knows why that girl does a damn thing."

"I was worried when she started climbing, but Simon said that it was fine." Kaylee continued, like she hadn't even heard him. "He said he'd seen River climb higher and smoother walls than this one."

"She got up to the ledge there, and she walked out, and then she just... stood there for a minute. Looking down. I remember it, I was—" Kaylee's voice catches in a sob. "I was watching. She was looking down at us, and then she spread her arms wide, and I remember thinking how graceful she looked. How beautiful, like she was some kind of bird. Like a hauk, or something." She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth for a second. 

"And then she jumped." 

Mal shook his head. "She's been doing so well, too. None of them, what did Simon call 'em, 'manic incidents' in more than six months." He stared at his fingers and frowned. "Something don't add up."

The hospital doors swung open, and Kaylee craned her neck to see. "Oh, here they come!"

"Does this mean we're not going to leave them?" Jayne whined.

"I will shoot you in the foot if you ask that question ever again," Mal replied out of the corner of his mouth, while he waved and smiled a broad fake smile at Simon. "We owe that girl more than one lifetime can repay, and that fully includes you. She is the entire reason that we are "living large" right now, and not decorating the hull of some gorram Reaver ship. So, _Jayne_ , whatever she needs, if we can help her out, we will. Shiny?"

Jayne muttered something rude-sounding in response.

River and Simon Tam reached them just in time to save Jayne from Mal's response. Simon was pushing River in a metal wheelchair, and underneath one arm he carried two lightweight, telescoping crutches. River looked surprisingly well, for someone who had just jumped off a ledge, but her left leg was encased in a white polyresin cast. She was smiling widely, but Simon looks shaken and white. 

River waved at them. "Hello, Kaylee!" She ignored Mal and Jayne completely. 

Kaylee took off like a shot, running to her side. She bent down and took River's hand. "Oh, honey. What happened? Are you alright?"

River tilted her head to the side, and gave Kaylee a quizzical look. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" She smiled at Kaylee, and then she gently pulled her hand away to indicate her ankle. "Look, I broke my leg. There are minimally-displaced transverse fractures of the tibia and fibula," she announced, "which is classified as a medium-severity break."

"The prognosis is quite good," Simon said. His voice sounded raspy, like he hadn't slept for days, though Kaylee knew for a fact that wasn't true. "She'll have the cast for five weeks, and must take thrice-daily doses of an osteogenic serum." He held up a rather large blue bottle. "As long as she follows that regimen, she's expected to make a complete recovery."

"You were lucky," Kaylee said to River. "This could have been a whole lot worse."

River shook her head. "No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"No. I wasn't lucky. I landed exactly as I meant."

"What?" It's Simon who says that, very softly. He drops the handles of River's chair. "River, explain."

River turned to look at him. "Simon," she said matter-of-factly, "I needed to break a bone, in order to study how it felt. So that I could learn what to expect.

"This way, if someone ever breaks one of my bones again, I will be able to anticipate and work around the physical and mental reactions. But I had to know what those reactions would be, first."

She hesitated, looking around at Kaylee and Simon and Mal. "I didn't inconvenience you too much, did I? I tried to land as close to the hospital as I could."

Even Jayne was left speechless by that.

Naturally, Mal collected himself first. "I think you and I need to have a word about your duties as a member of this crew," he said. "Now, it ain't that I mind if you decide you need a break from bodyguarding" — that had become River's job, in the year-plus since Miranda — "but you can't just run off without warning and... and do something to yourself that will take you off the job for, what? At least two months?"

River looked at him as if he was speaking in a foreign tongue. Then, understanding visibly dawned. She laughed softly, and took Mal's hand. "You think that this will impede my ability to fight, don't you?" she said. She patted his hand in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring. "Don't worry. I promise that it won't. You'll see."

Before Mal could say anything else, she looked over at Kaylee, and with genuine alarm said "Please don't cry. Kaylee, what's wrong? It'll be okay, you'll see."

Kaylee sniffled, and wiped at her face with the back of her hand. Simon stepped next to her and threw his arm across her shoulders, and she leaned against him, nestling against his side. Their relationship had quietly, over time, become a new emotional center for the crew — a reassuring constant in an ever-changing 'verse. 

"I just," she said, her voice catching on itself, "I broke my arm once, and it was just awful, I'm pretty sure it was the worst pain that I've ever felt. And I just don't understand how anyone could willingly choose that. Why would you ever put yourself through that kind of pain, if you could help it?" She shook her head. "It don't make sense."

"Kaylee." River's composure never faltered. "I know that you can never understand this, but you have to believe me when I say that my relationship with pain is nothing like your own. And I don't regret doing this one bit."

After that, there was nothing much to say. Simon lowered his head and started to push River's chair forward through the plaza, leading the way back to the ship.

\------

They met up with Zoe on a pre-arranged streetcorner. She was pushing a maglev cart stacked with crates that should, assuming all went well with her negotiations, now be filled with the parts, supplies, and rations that were their whole reason for coming to this planet.

Both Mal and Zoe realized that they were being followed about five blocks later, right as they stepped into the long concrete tunnel that led into the spaceport. Both of their hands inched toward their sidearms, but before anybody could take action, two men stepped out, blocking the far end of the tunnel. 

They were dressed like locals, but they were wearing conspicuous body armor, and each man had two laser pistols pointed at the group. A third man stepped out of the shadows behind them, cradling a rifle in his arms. He whistled. "Now what've we got here?"

"Zoe, who are these clowns?" Mal asked.

"Don't rightly know, sir," Zoe said.

"Give me my crutches," River said to Simon.

"Shut up, all of you!" One of the men, apparently the leader, waved his pistols at them. "Now, we only want what's in those crates. Just hand it over, and no one needs to get hurt. Not even your" — he sneered — "disabled friend here."

"Simon, give me my crutches," River said again. Simon was white-faced and trembling — still, after all of this time, not completely used to the random bursts of violence that followed the Serenity crew wherever they went — but this time he heard River. He nodded blankly, and reached for the crutches that he was carrying under one arm. Immediately, the barrels of four pistols turned to point directly at him. 

Mal nudged Zoe. She nudged him back, in acknowledgement. River was still helping them after all, by providing a distraction. Now, if they could only find a way to take advantage...

" _Actually_ , she's my sister," Simon said, "and I'd venture to say..." He coughed, and abruptly cut off the end of the sentence. Jayne rolled his eyes. "But you're right, she is disabled. Just a girl in a wheelchair, right? I mean, look, she can't even stand up, so she's definitely no threat to you. So I'm just going to hand her these crutches, okay. That's all I'm going to do. See?" One of the men grumbled, but the leader waved him off as Simon slowly pulled out the crutches and handed them to River.

At that moment, all three men were watching Simon and River, barely paying attention to the rest of the group. Mal had just begun to draw in the breath to signal Zoe, when suddenly... something unexpected happened.

It was River.

Just as soon as she had her hands set on both crutches, she swung into action. She leapt out of the wheelchair, moving so quickly that her outline was a blur, landing on her good leg and immediately twisting sideways. She hoisted one of the crutches over her shoulder, and tossed it like a spear. It hit the man behind them perfectly, knocking the rifle right out of his hands. 

River leaned into the spin, rising up on the toes of her right foot like a dancer, and then threw herself out of it and up, kicking forward with her good leg while supporting herself on her remaining crutch. This time, she caught one of the pistol holders directly on side of the knee, and the impact was hard enough that they all heard the bone crack. That man collapsed sideways into his companion as River whacked him hard on the head with her crutch. He slid to the ground, unconscious.

The other man put out his hands to catch himself, dropping both of his guns. He stumbled, but managed to retain his balance well enough to grab River's broken leg as it flew by. Simon winced, but River tucked automatically and fell back into a handspring, taking all of her weight easily on her hands. She kicked upward again, this time catching him right under his chin. His head flew back, and he collapsed.

All of this was accomplished in a single sweep of motion, like some choreographed dance. River leapt back to her feet, and came up facing exactly the same direction that she'd started, standing on her right leg and leaning on the crutch. The two men with pistols lay in front of her, unmoving.

The man behind them had gone scrambling to retrieve his gun, but he quickly froze before the unwavering barrels of Mal and Zoe's firearms.

River giggled. "That was fun," she said. "I've been getting bored with always fighting the same way. Playing with a different set of weapons can be nice." She looked at Simon, who was still standing there, frozen. "Simon, could you get my other crutch?" 

Simon numbly nodded, and turned to look for the crutch that she had thrown.

Mal whistled. "My goodness. And here I thought that we would have to step in. Oh, me of little faith."

Zoe shook her head, as she finished handcuffing the third man. "A different set of weapons," she repeated. She seemed to be at a loss.

Jayne, who never could learn when to quit, hissed, "Koo-koo crazytown. I toldja."

Zoe gave Jayne a hard look. "Jayne," she said with clenched teeth, "doesn't this whole thing make you glad that River is on _our_ side? Wouldn't you agree that it is worth putting up with some... weirdness, to keep our friendly local assassin" — she nodded in River's direction, as the younger woman gracefully reassumed her seat in the wheelchair — "all happy and content-like?"

Jayne made a face and looked at the ground. "Yeah, all right. Fine." He spat. "Ain't never seen nobody fight like that," he admitted. "I know some mean sons of bitches who couldn't do what she just done."

Ahead of them, River grabbed the edges of the wheels and shot forward, evading Simon's grasp. She looked back at her brother, laughing. "What are you waiting for?" she called back to them. "The tax collector's coming in ten minutes for an unannounced inspection. Let's move, people!" She laughed again.

She sounded really, genuinely happy.

"Well, you heard her," Mal said. "We'd better hurry up then." He took a place beside Zoe at the handle of the cart, and set his weight against it. "Let's get this stuff back to the ship."

He looked back at the three injured thugs, and shook his head. "Just another day with River Tam."

THE END


End file.
